Good Old Boy 1983
by sjowall1452
Summary: After Jack's death, Lureen gets to musing about her husband. An old friend takes an interest in her. Things are not as they seem...


"Well that was rude enough, Lureen," she thought as soon as she hung up the telephone. Why didn't she say "Thank you for calling, Mr. Del Mar; I'm sure Jack would've appreciated it. Goodbye now." Not mentioning the "appreciation," she knew, was because of the feeling she had that Jack _already _appreciated it, almost as if he'd been waiting for that phone call. About the rudeness, not saying goodbye or thank you, she wanted to think about that, some…and she didn't know which was stranger: the rudeness, or the sense of already felt appreciation.

So, the mountain _was_ real, after all. Why should this be such a surprise? She knew that, too. When Jack had spoken—several times, really—about wanting his ashes "scattered on Brokeback Mountain," there was something in his voice which gave you the feeling that "Brokeback Mountain" was…more like—a way of living, or feeling, of thinking, than a real place. He had never offered further directions, and she'd never asked for any.

So now it turns out that Jack had been there, three years before they had met, with Mr. Del Mar, and never said a word about it. The hunting buddy, the fishing buddy, was a young man Jack had lived and worked with for three months, herding sheep. Why hadn't Jack said so? That was the reason for her rudeness, she supposed, transferring her annoyance from Jack to the stranger who had called.

Where in the far and fairly large state of Wyoming was Brokeback Mountain, anyhow? Not that it mattered now…

She took a handkerchief out of her pants pocket, blew her nose and wiped the corners of her eyes…why, she'd almost started crying after he said, "No, ma'am, we was herdin' sheep one summer on Brokeback, back in '63…"

As she went to the kitchen to make a pitcher of lemonade—Bobby would be home soon—thoughts poured slowly through her mind, like water on new seeds, almost ready to take root, but not quite.

Her thoughts began with the long-established _Three Strange Things About Jack_.

The _First Strange Thing About Jack_ was—the second time they'd made love. The first time was more like barrel racing than lovemaking, and it was of course all her fault. She'd been in such a hurry, as she was any time a fellow caught her fancy, especially if it was late, and it never was any good. It was, she thought, to please them. But the second time…

It was almost as if—she still giggled a little at the idea—he'd gone to the library, and checked out a book on "how to make love to your wife"—of course, it wouldn't have said "your girlfriend"—if there were such books. She'd heard of these books—someone said they weighed five pounds apiece!—by some professor in Illinois, or Indiana, or some state around there, all about men and women—one book for each—making love. A few years after World War Two, they were written. She'd never seen one. Maybe they'd have them in Dallas…maybe there…maybe there were other books. He could have gone to a prostitute, paid her, and asked the same questions, but—that might have gotten around, she thought. Why not just—ask a friend? Oddly enough, of the three possibilities, that seemed the least likely, although he spoke often, at length and with pleasure, with other men.

She would never have thought of it as a "Strange Thing," except it had been so different, the second time: he had been so patient with her, with himself, with the whole process…and it had been…so great! This huge change (of course, a couch instead of the back seat of a car helped, too) was what made her think of it as the _First Strange Thing About Jack_.

But the frequency and quality of the lovemaking had lessened quickly. From three times a week (with surprising regularity), to once a week, to—almost none at all. This led her to the _Second Strange Thing about Jack_.

Often after their occasional lovemaking, if she'd still be awake half an hour later, which she wasn't always, she'd see Jack slip silently out of bed, and head for a distant part of the house. She had followed him once, just as silently, and found him in the business room, a glass and a bottle of whiskey on the table before him, listening to songs on the radio, so softly, that from her hiding place against the wall in the neighboring room, whose door she'd opened so slightly, so quietly, she couldn't hear them. What was there about lovemaking that would make a man lie awake for half an hour, and then get up and drink whiskey and listen to songs on the radio?

Jack had never really been happy in this house. After the army doctor had told him, along with the fact that they wouldn't be able to use his services in the army, that whatever he'd been doing with his body, he'd better stop it, if he wanted to continue walking after the age of thirty, after he'd quit the bull riding, no matter how good he was at selling farm machinery, he'd always been a fish out of water away from the outdoors. She knew he'd grown up on a small, poor ranch, and after that, along with the rodeo (and now, it turned out, the sheep herding), he had spent the rest of his time working outdoors, too. That seemed to be the only place he was really happy. She herself occasionally planted flowers, and she had a special feeling about Spanish Moss, as infrequently as she'd seen it, but she was an indoor person. Well, let's face it, Lureen, she thought to herself, in this part of Texas, there are certain months of the year when EVERYONE is an indoor person when they can be.

But in spite of their separateness, in the few months since Jack died, she had found herself more attached to the memory of him than she would ever have thought. This was mainly because she saw Jack in Bobby, whom she dearly loved. And now, when he smiled at her, she sometimes—sometimes not—thought of the way Jack had smiled, when they were first knew each other. She loved Bobby's smile.

The _Third Strange Thing About Jack_ was the non-existent rival. It was well before Jack's death that she had realized that they hadn't grown apart; she had come to know that they'd always been apart. But although Jack hadn't ever really been happy, she knew, he had always smiled, _really_ smiled, at everyone, and liked almost everybody. Yet in the almost 17 years they had been married, she had never seen him favor, with looks or words, any woman over any other. Men, he reacted to as individuals, and often, she thought, as she would. So although the increasing awareness of their separateness would lead her to believe she had a rival— there was none.

Maybe she had found…him.

She'd never had a thought like that about another human being she knew personally, let alone her husband.

Little green shoots were arising in fertile ground now. She just had time to begin to think about the distant friendship that _never _seemed to end, and the fourteen hours of driving Jack had so cheerfully undertaken at least twice a year to see his friend, and that, perhaps, she never really had a chance with Jack to begin with…before the doorbell rang.

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"Just a minute," she called, and took a tiny purse out of her pants pocket, from right next to the handkerchief, and applied lipstick with the tube inside, no mirror necessary. It was back in her pocket by the time she reached the door.

"Roy!" she said, genuinely pleased, shaking the disturbing thoughts from her mind, putting them off for another time.

"On my way home, Lureen, and wondered if you could do with a few minutes of my company," he said, removing his hat, always polite, whether accepted or refused. The lines in Roy Taylor's face were in all the right places: at the corners of the blue eyes and the mouth, making them seem to smile even more than they really did. His fair hair, going gray, was as thick as ever, and cut short. He was about 10 years older than Lureen; his wife, Ella, had died of cancer the year before ("Has it really been that long?" she thought.)

"Glad to have you, Roy," she said, returning his smile. "We got whiskey and soda, beer, and—y'know." He followed her across the room, where he sat on the sofa facing the door, straight, no elbows on knees, or crossed legs, "I just made a pitcher of lemonade, cause Bobby's comin' home soon…"

"Lureen, that would hit the spot. Oh my, would it," he said.

She went to the kitchen, and brought the pitcher and glasses on an aluminum tray, and filled them, the ice making a plop-clink as it fell into the glasses from the generous spout.

"How's Bobby?"

"Doin' fine in school. Misses his daddy."

"Good! So that readin' and writin' problem is finally cleared up?"

"Yep, Reads just fine. I type some of his papers for him, now he's in high school—they're so _long!_ –we had a special tutor for him for a while, you know—worth it, and then some…"

"Glad to hear that." A pause. "What do you suppose causes that stuff?"

"Y'know, I think—I sure have been doin' a lot a thinkin' lately," and she laughed, for the first time in…how long? "I think: some people are born with...mmm... 'kinks,' I guess you'd call 'em, and it takes some longer'n others to get rid of 'em . My brother, Bern, he stammered like crazy for two years—and then, he just quit. Stopped on a dime."

"I didn't know you had—have—a brother, Lureen."

"Oh yeah…Bern…he died of polio in '52. Funny I should mention his stammerin' and not his dyin."

"Maybe you thought—felt—we'd both had enough of dyin' lately," Roy said.

"True enough, Roy."

"That's interestin' what you said about—what'd you call 'em?–'kinks'. Suppose there's some of us born with kinks we never do get over."

"True enough," she said, not really wanting to explore it any further, not with Roy, not now. Roy sensed her discomfort.

"Sometimes, though," he said, "God gets it just right, the first time."

She smiled., and stretched her arms above her head in an uncharacteristically relaxed gesture, joining her hands, like a kid "Like," she looked down, as if revealing a secret, "Spanish Moss."

"Spanish _what_?"

"Spanish Moss. It's a vine, grows on oak trees—don't see it much around here, but in the east, even Louisiana, you see it, hangin' off the trees, swayin' in the breeze, so soft, old. Like—God was decoratin' a Christmas tree."

"Oh yeah…I got some of that—or something near like it—down at my cabin at the lake."

"Really?"

"Yep," he said. "Spanish Moss, and….you."

"Me?" Lureen was confused. "Me—what?"

"God got it just right the first time," he said, looking into her eyes.

"Roy!" her voice was stern, but she was blushing under her makeup, and her eyes were all sparkly.

He'd wanted to do this for some time, but he'd always sensed—a distance—between him and Lureen, which seemed to be dissipating of late. He got to the business he'd stopped by for. "What I stopped for, besides seeing you, was to ask you if you 'n Bobby'd like to have dinner with me at my place, Saturday night."

"Roy, you know we would," she said. Before, when she'd accepted an invitation from Roy, the enthusiasm was due to Roy's cook being the best in the county, and her getting a night off. Now she was really looking forward to his company.

"Seven o'clock okay by you folks?" he asked, as he got up.

"Just fine, thanks." He touched her shoulder, almost accidentally, with his hand, heading for the door. "I really liked that," she thought.

"Nice to see you Lureen, and—thank you for the coldest, best lemonade I ever had."

She smiled, and opened the door for him. "Bye, Roy," she said.

He nodded, again looking into her eyes. "Bye, Lureen," he said, as she closed the door softly behind him.

Funny, he thought, as he headed for his car, he hadn't given Lureen a thought when he had the garage men take care of Jack, even though Ella had been dead, well, it was a year, now. She never entered his mind, except maybe to think that she'd have plenty of money, with Jack or without. No, it had come about because he'd paid a surprise visit to Randall and Jack when they were spending a few days in his cabin; he thought he'd take a day off himself and offer his company to make a threesome at fishing and drinking. He didn't care that Randall was his employee—he wasn't like that. He parked his car away from the house, because of the grass and weeds in the front, had seen the boat tied up down by the lake. He climbed the few steps to the door, thought he heard a sound inside. So he knocked. The sound stopped, so he opened the unlooked door. Jack and Randall had been engaged in an activity that did not admit of a threesome (as far as he knew). Knowing Jack had seen him, he quietly closed the door, and walked back to his car. He felt sick.

He only thought about it a couple of days before he had hired and paid the garage men, paid them well, and told them exactly what to do. They had done a real good job, and nobody who would care would ever know. Lureen provided considerable help by refusing to look at Jack's face or body (she'd been told what they looked like by the doctor). She'd picked Jack's left hand up from beneath the sheets—the doctor had told him all this—and said "That's his watch and ring—only weddin' ring like it in the county."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Twist," the doctor had said, "jewelry won't do—and I've seen other rings like that." But then Lureen had remembered a time when Jack had been hammering a nail into something, and the nail had slipped, but the hammer struck, driving it into his left palm. "The scar's still there," she said.

The doctor handed her Jack's hand, and there it was—the scar she had spoken of. "All right, Mrs. Twist, that'll do. Thank you for your cooperation, and I'm sorry for your loss." Jack's ashes had been forthcoming.

Why not Randall? He still didn't quite know. Randall was a good foreman, and he always knew who was boss, even if he had been to college. Randall had never mentioned Jack, from that day to this. There was something about Jack that seemed to say, "Everyone's as good as everyone else." He expected you to understand what he meant, and he understood what you meant. Of course, he wasn't Jack's boss. Sweet guy, Jack…he shook his head. That the idea of Jack being a sweet guy should fall into his head while he was justifying to himself why he had had him (and only him) killed, was a little disconcerting.

His thoughts turned on themselves, as he opened his car door. "'Kinks, huh?" He slammed the car door, and put the key in the ignition, turning it. "One less queer for the human race to be ashamed of," he thought, as the engine started quietly. He put the car in reverse. He really liked Lureen, and even if the feelings he had for had not taken a romantic turn, he'd be glad he'd gotten rid of Jack, for her sake.

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"Hey, Momma," Bobby crossed the room to the couch, dropped his pack on the floor and sat, his tallish, lean body fitting into the soft cushions. Bobby had Jack's mouth, his eyes brown like hers, and large like both of theirs. She remembered speculating before he was born that, given his parents, his eyes might take up the entire upper part of his face. His black hair fell over his forehead, already tanned from the sun of early summer, masking his fair complexion.

"Hey yourself, darlin' Made some lemonade."

"That sounds…SO great. Please." He smiled at her with the smile she loved. Sometimes, she thought, he knew it, and took advantage of it….

She rinsed her and Roy's glasses , and reclaimed the pitcher from the refrigerator. As she filled Bobby's glass, the few remaining cubes gave an occasional clink. He reached for the glass with one of his long slender hands, another bequest from Jack.

"Ah…boy," said Bobby, after drinking half the glass without breathing.

"Roy Taylor came by. Wants us for dinner on Saturday night. I said fine—hope it's okay, with you," she paused. "Hey," she said, noticing a look on Bobby's face, "best cook in the county."

"I know. It's just—I don't know. Y'know, Lashawn talks your head off—I mean, she really drives you NUTS, but I'd still rather go to the Malones' than Roy's." Bobby thought it was simple: he felt a slight coldness towards him from Roy, and it was natural to return it.

It wasn't so long ago, Lureen thought, she'd have reacted the same way, but with her, the distance that had existed between her and Roy had arisen from herself, and she never knew why, except that whatever it was, it seemed to have gone away…today. She thought of the last time they'd been to Roy's for dinner; her pleasure in accepting the invitation had been exclusively because of the good food she wouldn't have to prepare herself. Funny how quickly things could change. "Maybe next time, honey," she rumpled his hair, and he curbed his flinch, though he was too old for that stuff. "Our friends sure do see to it that we don't get lonely huh?" she said.

"Yeah, they do. So, if I make plans for Friday night it's all right with you?"

"Sure, Bobby." She laughed suddenly, "Knock yourself out!"

"Huh?"

"Have a good time," she said, more quietly.

"You don't have to worry none about that, Momma. You know that."

Lureen thought about Roy saying, "God got it just right the first time," and for the first time in ever so long, smiled for no reason at all. As she filled Bobby's glass with the last of the lemonade, Bobby answered her for-no-reason-at all smile with the smile she loved.


End file.
